Et Cetera
by Beechwood0708
Summary: Jones finds himself in a pretty nasty situation while trying to stand up for Dan. Jonatton/Jones. Rated M for a reason.


Hi. This is my first Nathan Barley fic, written for a prompt on a Nathan Barley meme on LJ, which basically asked for Jonatton with anyone else except Nathan. And my perverse little mind came up with this.

Also, a bit OT, but if anyone from the Boosh archive reads this, I just want to say I am very sorry about anything that's been up there for days that I still haven't reviewed. I am very behind, because y'all are updating very quickly. And also this really wanted to take its sweet time. I hope it's worth it.

Btw, if I've offered anyone requests, I am serious about them, I will write you anything. Or if I haven't offered and you want one anyway. Even if you don't know me.

Warning: contains some pretty graphic dub-con mansex.

Et Cetera

He hadn't expected Dan to still be there when he arrived, so Jones had been forced to run back from the door and hide in an alley until Dan had gone, a task which involved being completely quiet for several minutes. This wasn't Jones' forte. He existed between three states: loud, unconsciously noisy, and actually unconscious. But he knew that for Dan's sake, he had to do it, and for his own sake, he couldn't be seen doing it.

Jones peeked out from the alleyway and, satisfied that Dan had definitely gone, went for the door. He pressed the buzzer and the door was opened without a word, so he walked on up, a little slower now, getting nervous.

Jonatton Yeah? was waiting for him, alone, as promised. He had a smug non-grin on his face, and Jones felt himself surging with anger and disgust. He had tried to make it seem as inconspicuous as possible. He had called the office, on Jonatton's private number, which he had found lying around in one of Dan's drawers, and just asked to meet with him in private. He had told Jonatton that his irregular working hours had mucked up his body clock, and this left him unalterably unconscious throughout most of the day, which wasn't a complete lie, most of the time, but that he might be able to come by at about six-thirtyish. It hadn't mattered though, and he'd heard Jonatton's mocking wheeze as Jonatton didn't even bother moving the phone away to laugh at him. "Fine," he'd said. "And shall I tell Daniel that I'll be expecting you?" And Jones had had to tell him, no, that Dan couldn't know. And that had given Jonatton the upper hand. Jonatton was watching him now, self-satisfied glint in his eyes, knowing that he had Jones under his thumb, and probably already sure how best to use this to its full advantage.

"In there," Jonatton said, turning away and retreating into his office, his derisive whine grating through Jones' nerves. Jones followed him in, looking around at the old road signs and studio lights and all the miscellaneous crap that Jonatton had accumulated in there. He noticed the preacherman costume pushed against a wall, probably in there so that Dan didn't have to look at it, and the anger bubbled up in Jones' stomach again.

"What?" asked Jonatton, and Jones hovered nervously, unsure how to vocalise himself. He had been thinking about it all day, but to no avail. It really had been a while since he'd had a long conversation about something other than music.

"Give him a break," was the inarticulate and aggressive answer he finally came out with. Jonatton looked down a little to him, cocking his head and raising an eyebrow, and Jones, infuriated, let his mouth run. "Just… give him a fucking break. I mean, you give him shit, you treat him like shit, he just gets nothing but shit, and you don't even pay him well for it! He's fucking sick of it, and he won't say anything, so I fucking will! You're a fucking arsehole, Yeah? Sort it!"

Jones finally stopped shouting, and realised he was breathing heavily. Jonatton was looking at him with an expression that suggested he was about to laugh in Jones' face, and Jones realised that mouthing off at him like that was probably the worst thing he could possibly have done. And what could he do now? He refused to apologise to this moron, and in any case, it would hardly help if he did. He couldn't leave; that would mean he had wasted all his efforts. And if he stayed and carried on arguing, he doubted Jonatton would listen to him at all, and there was always the chance that he would let Dan know.

Dan always complained, but he refused to let anyone help him. Jones hated running around in secret and going behind his back, but what else could he do if he didn't want Dan to have to suffer?

Jones suddenly realised that Jonatton hadn't shouted back. He hadn't said a word. He hadn't even moved. He didn't look angry at all. He was looking at Jones like he was a precocious child, with a sardonic half-smile and a patronising gaze. There was something behind that gaze, and Jones couldn't tell what it was. He didn't know Jonatton very well, having only met him a few times, but he had seen enough to know that he didn't trust him.

"That can be arranged," Jonatton said finally. Jones mentally jumped in surprise, and hoped he hadn't physically jumped as well. Jones just stood there staring like a goldfish until Jonatton spoke again. "You'd have to make it up to me."

He had an odd speech pattern, Jones had noticed. He went higher at the end of sentences, as though he was inviting a response, when often he wasn't. Jones couldn't be sure whether he expected one now.

But he hadn't said anything, and he was looking at Jones quite expectantly, and Jones hadn't replied and had made a big awkward silence.

"Course," Jones answered, quickly, as though this might make up for the silence, but only accomplishing the inexcusable mangling of that one syllable. He swallowed, and tried to calm himself down. "What did you have in mind?"

Jonathon didn't say anything. Just another look. Jesus, this man seemed to be made of looks. A cold glare, and a sharp nod of the head towards the desk.

"What?"

Jonatton just repeated the action. And then it hit him.

"Shit."

This wasn't what he'd had in mind. Suddenly his mind was flooded by the image of Jonatton staring fixedly into the apparently-teenage girl's anus, and he felt his knees buckling under him.

"Or I could just tell Ashcroft you tried your best." He was putting on a voice, like he was talking to an infant. God, had he been planning this since Jones had called? Jones wouldn't put it past him, he really wouldn't.

"Hello? Jonesy?"

Jones was pulled out of his thoughts by a hand waving uncomfortably close to his eyes. Jonatton was now dangerously close, wearing yet another look. This one had something impatient, something wanting, something dangerous behind it, and Jones was almost ready to run.

"Look, Jonesy, it's simple," Jonatton was saying in that same patronising tone. "You bend over, I have a good time, Danbo gets a big fat payout. Registering?"

Jones bit his lip. He couldn't run. He wouldn't be able to look at Dan's face if he heard that Jones had gone to plead his case with Jonatton. At least if he went through with it, Dan would never know.

He sighed and resigned himself to moving slowly to the desk and leaning over it. He didn't object, didn't even move, as Jonatton undid his flies and pulled down his jeans, too apathetic now to bother doing it himself.

He screamed at a sudden dry shove into his arsehole, jumping away from Jonatton and almost tripping over his own jeans, having to catch himself on the desk. "Jesus Christ!" he shrieked. "Haven't you got a fucking clue?"

"Of course I've got a clue," Jonatton replied, sneering as he walked, cock in hand, to the other side of the desk and opened a drawer containing nothing but copious amounts of lube and condoms. "I just wanted to see what your reaction would be."

Jones could feel his face burning, and noticed his breathing was sharp and ragged. Jonatton squeezed a dollop of lube, sufficient in Jones' opinion, into his hand and methodically greased up his cock.

"Are you not using one of those?" Jones asked.

"What?"

"Johnnies."

Jonatton looked at him like he was an idiot. "Those are for _girls_," he said, voice as ever full of derision.

Jones saw no point in tiptoeing around this man any more. "I don't want your diseases," he maintained, as steadfastly and strongly as he could muster.

"I haven't got any diseases," replied Jonatton, still intent on his cock.

"Well… I've got syphilis," insisted Jones.

Jonatton snorted. It seemed odd to Jones, coming from him, and Jones wondered if perhaps he was starting to have some effect.

"If you had syphilis, you wouldn't care about what I've got, would you," sniggered Jonatton. "And besides which, you'd probably be desperate to give it to me."

Jones sighed, once again resigned to his fate. He just hoped Jonatton wasn't lying when he said he didn't have any diseases. He looked down, eyes fixed on the desk, as he felt Jonatton coming up behind him. He felt a slicked finger shoved into his arsehole and pushed around, joined too quickly by another, and a third, making him gasp in pain, with Jonatton not caring for his pleasure, only that he could stick it in as soon as possible.

It came in, probing and insistent, but much slower than Jones had expected. He felt it push in and out, now picking up speed. He could hear Jonatton making odd short groans around his own sharp breaths, and he leaned forward and did his best to relax into it. There was something about the way Jonatton was holding his hips. It wasn't forceful; it was by no means gentle, but there was nothing cruel or violent in the grip. Maybe Jonatton wasn't quite as sadistic as he'd thought. Or, then again, maybe he was just self-involved.

Jonatton was speeding up. His thrusts were vigorous, and Jones would never have done it like this given the choice, but at least he wasn't in any pain, and he thought that if he angled himself in just the right way, he might be able to forget his situation and enjoy it. He leaned further, giving Jonatton better access to his prostate, and took a sharp breath in as Jonatton finally hit it. He held his position, savouring every trace of pleasure, and took his cock in his hand, stretching his brain to think of someone more appealing.

Jonatton seemed to like this, and Jones felt his thrusts pick up more speed, and the little jumps of pleasure doubled, a shaky little staccato beat, and Jones clawed at himself, desperate to relish the feeling and forget the place. Suddenly he felt a liquid wave shooting through him, followed by a second as Jonatton released a low moan. Jones gave himself one last pull, before finally spurting unceremoniously over his hand and over the desk.

Jonatton pulled out and covered himself without a word. Waiting a moment to collect himself, Jones got up and looked around for something to wipe his hand on, not wanting to use his own clothes in case someone saw. The preacherman outfit would have been perfect, defiling the hideous costume with resistant cum, but he was stopped by the infuriating thought that it was likely Dan would still have to wear it again. So he made do with some papers on Jonatton's desk, and hoped they weren't important.

He put himself away and turned to go. Briefly, he glanced back at Jonatton, and caught him gazing at a handwritten memo with Dan's name on it. Jonatton looked back up at him.

"Same time next week, et cetera?"


End file.
